2:20 AM
by Thefriendlyvandal
Summary: Iceberg gets sick.


"Julian."

Ice's head lulls to the side. He's so cold Gears can barley touch him, skin grey, face pale. Gears had never put thought into what would happen when Iceberg got sick; the mechanics of his body, of a potential fever, were pushed aside under the vague umbrella of 'anomalous effect', but now, he knows.

An hour ago, Ice was crying on the couch; Gears knew because he had scraped ice droplets off his face with the back of his thumbnail. This was how Gears found him after getting off his shift: sick, had been sick that day, sicker that night, sicker now in the waning hours of the morning then he had ever seen him before in his life. The thermometer no longer reads his temperature. There's vomit on Gears' shirt, clear bile that his assistant dry heaved up and no, it's alright, you can't help it, it's just a shirt. I know, it's alright. Please stop crying. The salt droplets run down his face and freeze into crystals that leave hard, clear patches when Gears breaks them away.

The lamp next to the couch casts a yellow light on the situation he addresses, the slim form curled up on beige fabric with arms clamped around stomach. He's been crying and vomiting; probably dehydrated. Ice ends up barley keeping down the water Gears makes him drink. Bad things always happen in the early morning, he reflects, glancing at the screen of his smartphone before it fades back to black.

Gears presses a calloused palm to his partner's forehead and finds it colder than he's ever felt it before, and he knows because he's memorized the feeling of -7 degrees Celsius against his skin, always edging in for warmth just a little closer before Gears starts to shiver in bed, _Iceberg, Iceberg, Iceberg._ What closeness feels like, like matching a word to a diagram. He wants it now more than ever, but it's slipping away, -8, -10, -20, he pulls the space heater closer to the couch. Everything in his world is turning cold, cold, cold like the white world outside and cold like the sample freezers and cold not like comfort. His hands are too numb to keep wiping away Ice's delirious tears and he forces himself to stop, to take refuge in his own 37 degree Celsius temperature; Iceberg's body lurches like he's about to dry heave again, but nothing comes up, just painful gagging and the sound of the heater wheezing on high. Gears realizes how tired the cold body on the couch in front of him looks. Reaches out a hand, breaks off the few tears that have frozen into place on his face. Wishes he could tell him for certain that it was almost over.

Gears calls for him, and his head lulls to the side. His smartphone reads 3:00 AM when he starts the water in the bath. The cold burns through both their clothes when Gears lifts him up off the couch. Ice isn't crying anymore. He wishes he was.

Ice is fading in and out, body limp in his arms (Gears cannot usually lift this much for long, and works in haste to sit him up against the bathroom wall), sobs down to staggered breathing and a few remaining exhausted tears. Iceberg was never one to cry, and when he did, never cried like this. When Gears starts pulling off the sweatshirt Ice had thrown on that morning, Iceberg gives a little mumble of resistance, but the warm steam is starting to flood from the tub and the words are lost in a freezing breath of air. His glasses are left on the coffee table out by the couch and the battered pair of sweatpants come off easily.

The underwear, too, has to be removed; Gears realizes this last, once his hands are red from working around the cold skin of his partner. If the situation was different, it may have been erotic, as they've done many times before, where Ice smiles at him playfully during the night's last experiment and ends up curled against him in bed. This time it feels clinical, detached, worried. Fearful. Uncertain.

The water's hot, and Gears considers for a moment the possibility of shock before Ice again constricts his abdomen in another sharp gag. Sick, he's so, so sick. Charlie rolls up his sleeves and slips one arm under Ice's armpits and the other under his knees and lays him into the bathwater and more tears, Ice starts crying again, soft, exhausted sobbing, _I know, I'm sorry_.

"Julian."

Had Ice been healthy, Gears would have never put him into water this temperature; too hot for him. Not burning, but hot enough to trigger a few loud complaints and colorful words directed at him. Ice's chest rises and falls erratically as he sobs; Gears has never before realized how much he dislikes seeing him cry.

"Julian, It's alright." He keeps his voice low and soft. _Please, I know. I'm so sorry._

Dull eyes open and look at him drearily.

"Hello, dear. You're ill. Relax."

His directions are short, clear, easy to understand. Ice sinks farther into the water, head leaning against the back of the tub, tears running down his cheeks.

"S… 's hot."

"I know. You're cold."

Ice looks like he's processing this for a moment, brain dragging in a feverish haze. A couple more tears run down his face.

"Hurts."

"I know. You'll feel better soon, alright?"

Ice's eyes wander from him to the tile backsplash, to the bathroom light, to Gears' forearms leaned on the side of the tub.

"Tired."

"I know, dear."

There's a thin layer of ice forming on the top of the water, blossoming out in crystals that Ice watches with sleepy eyes. Gears turns on the showerhead and unplugs the drain. Keep the water warm. Keep Iceberg warm.

"'s raining."

"Mm-hm." Gears doesn't attempt to correct him; just leans on the edge of the tub and feels his forehead again. Ice's eyes wander off to watch the water fall from the showerhead. Sick now, better later, if this was the fever breaking.

It would be a long night.


End file.
